Rough-Cut Pages and Pencil-Sketch Illustrations

    Here's the book I most recently bought. Kenny & the Dragon, by Tony DiTerlizzi. It's the first I've gotten in a long time (it was $8 at the Scholastic book fair). This is a children's book about a rabbit who lives on a farm and likes reading better than farm work. That's as much as I know so far.

   I was attracted to this book by it's beautiful cover first. Really, books should all be hardcover. And they should all have pencil-sketch illustrations and off-white, rough-cut pages with nice, ink-ish-looking text. Tale of Despereaux (although it's soft cover) has this same kind of style, and it's my dream binding for my Wynna story.
   So. I better get to writing. I have to finish my short story before I can work on Wynna, because my critique date is April 30th, and I still have character-sketching and world-building to do, maps to draw, and dozens of pages left to write!

Progress: ~6 pages

Sestina: Re-Post

Because I've been getting a slew of invisible spam comments from a "reader" in Poland that all say, "I love your writing! Click on this link, hehehehe..." I'm reposting "Sestina."

   Here's the "formula" for the end-word pattern of a sestina.

1            6            3            5            4            2

2            1            6            3            5            4

3            5            4            2            1            6

4            2            1            6            3            5

5            4            2            1            6            3

6            3            5            4            2            1

  My eyes almost rolled out of my head when I first saw that! A note of background: the sestina originated when court-poets or somebody like that wanted to do something extraordinarily tricky, or something like that.
   But it's really not as complicated as it looks once you get used to the pattern. At first I didn't see the point of making poetry so complicated, but I've read some brilliant sestinas (here's one by Miller Williams: The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina).
   I don't know if I will ever master it, but at least now I can say I've written one. Click here to read my sestina, "February."

Disclaimer: my reference to high school love is a generalization. I know of cases where high school love turned out successful and long-lasting.

Setting: On Board the HMV Lark

Hope the weather is turning nicer for you wherever you are...

   If there's one thing I've learned from all the exercises up to this point, it's that every description, every line of dialogue, and every event has to propel the story or build character. Well, I learned it in my head, but in practice, I still need to work on that.
   Here's what I wrote for this week. Read. Enjoy. Critique. If you want to try this exercise yourself, see the end of this post!
   

1

It was the first warm evening of March. The HMV Lark was anchored on Lake Dacen, and a breeze flickered across the landscape. It disturbed the water striders, riffled cloaks, and lifted the corner of the limp green, yellow, and black flag. Strong odors of live forest and hewn deck mingled with herb sachets, cured leather, cheese, and something burnt. The castle-side bank was close, and although the water was cold a decent swimmer could have reached it in minutes. On the far side a dark row of trees encircled the lake like a curtain. The dignitaries on board the Lark laughed and chattered. Like sunflowers toward the sun, their gazes followed the king who strolled from bow to stern with his head high and his hands behind his back. Every few strides he stopped and spoke. Then he moved on. Circles of guests broke and reformed, and individuals moved between groups in an untimed dance whose secret steps some knew better than others. The long-fingered statesman from Boronovia was one of them, and he flicked between his fellow guests and spent the most time in the king's radiance. Only one eye kept watch on the shrouded shores. When a cloud hid the moon, the lights on the ship blotted out the dark.

Happy Easter!

"Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said."

Dialogue

   Assignment: write a page of dialogue (with little background description) that is driven by subtextual motivation.

“Stunning,” Sir Sventall said. He leaned his arm against the window sash, admiring the drop off on the castle’s east side and the plummeting, pine-forested valley below. “I believe I am in love with the Fauldish landscape.”

            “I’m happy to hear it,” King Anders said. “In the winter I like to sit in this room for tea because it gets all the sun.” A servant rolled a tray to the table. “Sventall, my friend, do take a seat. Cream and sugar, as usual? You know, I’ve been meaning to thank you. This past fortnight you have been so liberal with your time and your counsel, and I can’t think how to reward you.”

            “Ah, Your Majesty, invitation to the High Council is a reward in itself.”

            “Come, come Sventall! If there is anything, anything I can do for you, tell me.”

            Sir Sventall pushed back his cup and folded his hands. “I do not wish to place my own burdens on your already laden shoulders, but there is one thing, Your Majesty. I am under increasing pressure from my homeland. As you know, great kingdoms must plan together, and Gera is not as patient a man as you are. I need your decision. Soon. Now.”

Prologue, by Edward Taylor

   Here is someone else's work for a change. Below are the last 3 stanzas of a poem by English-born American poet, Edward Taylor (1642-1729). The Poetry Foundation website I linked his name to gives details about his life and a long explanation of his major works, but if you want the bare facts he was born in England to a weaver father, moved to America for religious freedom, and was the minister of a church there for more than half his life.

"I am this crumb of dust which is designed 

To make my pen unto Thy praise alone,

And my dull fancy I would gladly grind

Unto an edge on Zion's precious stone;

And write in liquid gold upon Thy name

My letters till Thy glory forth doth flame.

Let not th' attempts break down my dust I pray,

Nor laugh Thou them to scorn, but pardon give.

Inspire this crumb of dust till it display

Thy glory through't: and then Thy dust shall live.

Its failings then Thou'lt overlook, I trust,

They being slips slipped from Thy crumb of dust.

Thy crumb of dust breathes two words from its breast,

That Thou wilt guide its pen to write aright

To prove Thou art and that Thou art the best

And shew Thy prosperties to shine most bright.

And then Thy works will shine as flowers on stems

Or as in jewelary shops do gems."

--Edward Taylor

Readers, Meet Wynna

Happy St. David's Day 4 Days ago

Happy Hinamatsuri (Girls' Day)
yesterday!

   I can't believe February is gone! Did I miss any other holidays in the first 4 days of March?
   This is Week 1 of the fiction unit in my class. The assignment was to write a page about a character doing a mundane task that has a greater significance than the task itself.
   Before work, my sister and I recorded our voices reading my response to the prompt, and when I came home six hours later, she had transformed it into a drama!
(Click here to listen along as you read)

"Boot Polishing" 

           Sleet and wind had no power inside the Patrol Tower, where below it lay sleeping dragons. Wynna sat barefoot and cross-legged with her torn, stained travel cloak spread beneath her. The bronze chandelier sixteen stairs above her provided the only light in the windowless mudroom. She flicked her long, dark braid over her shoulder and bent over her work. The mouth of the stiff boot came up to her elbow. She dipped an oily brown cloth into a bucket, then worked it over the leather. She gave a watery sniff and rubbed her nose on her sleeve for the twentieth time.

            “If Mother could see me now,” she said. Her voice was still raspy after the blizzarded journey through the Logoroth Pass. Wynna chuckled, her chuckle turning to an eye-watering, braying cough.

            “Is that you down there, Wynna?” Filip's voice rang against the stone walls, and he appeared on the landing above, a bandage peeking from his gray collar. Wynna nodded, the coughs squeezing her chest. Filip tramped downstairs and set his lantern on the floor. With his good hand he pulled out a flask and uncorked it with his teeth, letting it drop. “Here, a swig'll do you wonders.”

            Wynna gave the flask a look over the crook of her elbow.

            “It's that tea you gave me,” he said. “Go on.”

            Wynna reached for it and took a gulp. She blinked rapidly and gave a short, dry cough. “Yes, I taste a hint of dandelion tea. What’s it laced with?” She corked it and handed it back.

            “Just a bit of good old Hault mead. Reminds me of home.” Filip sat down on the stairs, his shoulders filling up the space. “Warms your throat doesn't it?”

            “To say the least!” she wheezed. “Give me a warning next time?”

            Filip grinned and rested his elbows on his knees. “I didn't know if you'd take it.”

            “So you tricked me?”

            “Well, it worked didn't it?”